


The Perils of Pair Bonding

by Infinitely_Stranger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Fanart, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinitely_Stranger/pseuds/Infinitely_Stranger
Summary: Sherlock turns out to have been a bit wrong about something. John turns out to have noticed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd write a bit of Johnlock as a festive commercial lovehearts day project (or Valentine's Day, as it were). My computer thought otherwise, and subsequently deleted it. This is the new and (debatably) improved version.
> 
> A second chapter, involving slashier slashy bits may appear.
> 
> I have no beta, so shall fix errors when I see them!
> 
> Happy excuse-to-buy-anatomical-heart-artwork day.  
> 

...

 

‘John, it has come to my attention that I was mistaken.’

 

‘What about?’ John looked up from his laptop with mild alarm. Given that Sherlock was in his chair, Rosie was at nursery, and it was a caseless Tuesday morning upon which nothing was eminently on fire, haemorrhaging, or detonating, John could only hope that Sherlock's error was distant and, ideally, minor.

 

‘6 of January, 2017’.

 

‘Right. That’s… hang on, your birthday?’ John felt an unpleasant inner dropping sensation.

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘So, which bit were you wrong about?’ He squirmed mentally, trying to remember what all had been said. To say his memories of that day were bittersweet in the extreme significantly understated the emotional maelstrom it had been. Never in his life had he felt more emotionally bared, or less himself... though on bad days, a hateful inner voice suggested that his true self was exactly the unfaithful and abusive monstrosity he’d let out then. He generally tended to ignore that inner voice.

 

‘As it turns out,’ Sherlock was saying, ‘I may not be entirely immune to relationships of a physical nature.’

 

‘Oh. Ok. Good.’ He’d almost forgotten the Adler topic had come up amongst everything else, 'That’s good. Erm. What brings this on?’

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. ‘You were the one who suggested we ought to attempt this whole transparency concept.’

 

John may not have been a deductive genius, but he knew Sherlock, and knew his intermittent admissions of introspection were never without cause.

‘Right, er, thanks for telling me, then. So, what now? Does this mean you’re finally having that dinner with Irene?’

 

Sherlock gave a snort of frustration. ‘Why must you always bring her up?’

 

‘Who else would it be about?’

 

‘John. Please. Irene is gay. As in, a lesbian. As in, does not fancy men, regardless of her trade.’

 

‘Well, she wouldn’t be the first person whose head you turned, what with the cheekbones and all that. She said it herself.’

 

Sherlock eyed him curiously, ‘She said a lot of things.  Though I don’t quite recall her mentioning my facial structure in that particular context.’

 

John coughed, ‘Yeah well. She clearly had a thing for you, no point in denying it. Has a thing, probably.’ He gestured vaguely in the direction of Sherlock’s phone.

 

‘John, I was a temporary diversion for her, an interesting game. And likewise. I admire her cleverness, but that’s all.’

 

‘That’s enough to be getting on with, for most people. You do have a lot in common.’ What with being in that exclusive society of resurrected, terrifyingly clever, and weirdly attractive gentry.

 

‘Yes well, I hardly need remind you that I am not most people. You were the one bent on inserting a romantic narrative into that case, which I still cannot comprehend. At best, there were elements of base attraction, particularly on her part. But that’s the shallowest chemical reaction, a trick of the body. Even in my _in_ experience I could differentiate between that and _love_.’

 

‘Hang on, I didn’t even post that entry, Official Secrets Act and all.’

 

‘Yes, thank heavens for small blessings. “Sherlock Holmes encounters Love”,’ he scoffed, quoting John’s (in retrospect, cringeworthy) summation of the case. Which Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have read, anyway. Still, John was well aware of the significant element of deflection in Sherlock’s monologue.

 

‘You did save her life,’ he needled, foregoing the temptation to bring up the angst-filled violin compositions as well.

 

Sherlock gave a beleaguered sigh, ‘Well, of course! Her loss would have been a waste of a brilliant mind. I’m not saying I didn’t find her… of value.’

 

‘Yes, yes. I get it. You geniuses look after your own,’ John muttered.

 

‘John I have saved you countless times. And vice versa. More than you know,’ he paused, glancing up before adding, with a pointed look, ‘and she is _not_ the only person who’s been subject of my compositions.’

 

John didn’t even bother asking how he knew*, but he was momentarily sobered. Something about this whole conversation was throwing him off-balance. ‘You’re right. Sorry. So, not Irene. You mean you’ve met someone then?’

 

‘Yes. That’s it! How brilliant! Of course, in all the spare time I have between solving cases, doing my research and looking after Rosie, I have, obviously, had ample time to peruse the cesspool of London’s population and find a prospective mate. How sparklingly observant, John. Why does the Yard even need me, when they have your towering intellect with which to consult!’

 

‘Look, I’m sorry!’ John snapped, ‘I’m just trying to understand where this is coming from. You tell me you were wrong about something you said over a year ago, about your desire to - I don’t know - form romantic relationships, and I’m trying to understand who, and why, and how, and why do I even bother? Why did you tell me Sherlock, if you didn’t want to talk about it?’

 

‘Why do you think?!’ snarled the angry bundle of dressing gown.

 

‘What do I think? I don’t know! What’s it got to do with me? What did you expect me to say, “oh congratulations, Sherlock, you’ve finally joined the rest of us in the human cesspool, why don’t we go and have a celebratory wank together”?’

 

‘Shut up, John.’ Sherlock’s seething took on a glacial aspect, and John became aware that he had said something very wrong indeed.

 

‘Sherlock, I’m sorry I-’

 

‘Shut. up.’

 

Several pieces of a puzzle that had been knocking about in John’s brain the last few months suddenly, and belatedly, coalesced. He allowed himself a moment to be subsumed in a wave of cringing regret. If only he could casually step back a minute in time, or at least have the foresight to equip himself with a ball-gag next time the topic of either of their emotions came up, as he clearly couldn’t handle his temper. Or adult conversation. Or anything, really.

 

‘I’m an idiot.’ he observed.

 

Sherlock gave a nod so tense that John pitied his cervical vertebrae.

 

John took a breath, ‘It’s to do with me, isn't it. That’s why you told me.’

 

Sherlock said nothing.

 

‘Right, if we’re not talking, can I make an observation?’

 

Sherlock gave the slightest of disdainful snorts.

 

‘You’ve been affected by me being around lately, haven’t you.’

 

‘I assure you, I have no idea to what you are referring.’ The the smallest, coldest voice in the world emanated from the direction of Sherlock's chair. John fought the urge to scream.

 

‘Come on, Sherlock, I’m a doctor, and more importantly, I’m not completely blind. Jesus please don’t make me say it.’

Sherlock was one with the furniture. He _was_ the furniture. Well, he was the furniture with one uncomfortable addition, which, it seemed, John was doomed to address.

‘What am I saying, of course you’ll make me bloody say it. Sherlock. Holmes. God help me, may I never have to say this again. It has come to my attention over the past few weeks that my proximity apparently makes you hard. Ok?’

 

The Sherlock-shaped furnishing twitched in a nearly imperceptible wince, ‘John, I don’t know what-’

 

‘No, don’t even start! You! Have had a fucking hard-on, stiffy, erection, whatever, dammit, every time I’m near you, if you even try to- You have got one now, I can fucking see it, so unless there’s some other reason, or someone else in this house-’

 

‘Of course there isn’t! I’m not a monster!’ Sherlock spat, pulling his knees up into a vicious ball.

 

‘Good. God, no, I didn’t mean- I know you’re not. I just meant. If there’s another sensible explanation, then for god's sake please enlighten me now, so I can end this frankly nightmarish conversation.’

 

‘I’m sorry to have caused your revulsion, believe me, if there was a way to terminate this reaction, I would have already employed it. Consider the conversation over.’ Sherlock rose and was out of the room before John finished processing the sentence. The bedroom door slammed.

‘No. No. Sherlock, that’s not what I- That’s not what I meant.’ John beseeched the empty room. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he made his way to the bedroom door. ‘Sherlock, will you let me in,’ he knocked.

 

The door, room, and its inhabitant seethed silently in his direction.

 

‘Sherlock, please,’ he spoke to the door, ‘I didn’t mean- You’re not repulsive. I know you can’t actually control… that. I’m not blaming you. Actually I don’t… I don’t mind. If you’re feeling more erm comfortable with your, er, _feelings,_ ’ he cringed out the word, ‘whatever they may be, then that’s, erm, a good thing. And I support you. It’s fine. I just think we need to talk about this, and get it sorted. I need you to work with me here, because I can’t… I won’t lose you. Again. Ok? I mean, to be honest, you’re … dammit… will you let me in so I can say this to your face?’

The door remained shut.

‘Ok, fine, I’ll say it to the door. You’re pretty much the fucking love of my life, as things go. So, er, yeah. I don’t know what you were hoping for here, but I’m, er, not leaving, if that’s what you were worried about. Though if this even turns out to be another one of your tricks to get me to say nice things to you, like you did in that fake tube car, I will absolutely kill you, Sherlock.’

The room emitted a very peculiar squawk.

‘Sherlock?’ his alarm at the sound overcame any desultory respect for privacy, and John turned the door handle, only to find an empty bedroom and an open window. In the distance, a seagull cried.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Sherlock!’ John stormed to the window, and was relieved to find no one below it, at least. A thin film of smoke from above indicated that the room’s erstwhile inhabitant was, in fact, on the roof of the neighbouring room-extension. Cursing, John scrambled to crouch on the windowsill, coming eye to eye with the detective’s toes on the adjacent overhang.

 

‘Sherlock.’

 

‘John, for pity’s sake. FUCK. OFF.’

 

‘Oh no. No, no. We are talking. And if I die in an attempt to climb up on this roof, that is all on you.'

 

‘Be my guest.’

 

John scrambled up onto the roof outcrop, banging both knees in the process.

 

‘Ow. Fuck. Hate your bloody long legs.’

 

‘Thank you, John, I’ll add them to the list,’ hissed Sherlock, puffing viciously on a cigarette.

 

‘No, I. Sherlock, I do not hate your legs.’ John backtracked, feeling unbelievably juvenile, and slightly choked by the cloud of smoke billowing from Sherlock’s cigarette, ‘or any other bits, for the record.’ He settled next to Sherlock, where he had perched with his back against the discoloured bricks.

 

‘Oh, I see. Just my nightmarish physicality as a whole. Brilliant, John. How very mature of you to argue semantics,’ Sherlock spat, savagely. What with all the smoke hissing through his teeth, John fancied he looked a bit like a petty, but rather vicious dragon.

 

‘I am not arguing semantics! If you would just listen to me for a second- Will you give me that!’ Eyes watering, John whipped the cigarette from Sherlock’s grasp, preventing it from depositing a second generous offering of ash to his groin, ‘Thank you!’ Rather than flick it away, he took a drag. The flavour was somewhere between vile, and exactly what the situation needed. Mainly, it tasted like Sherlock on a bad day. ‘You finished yet?’

 

Sherlock’s expression was stuck somewhere between beleaguered and agog.

 

‘Yeah, thought so.’ John finished the cigarette and snubbed it out, ‘Listen. If you hadn’t run away, you would’ve heard this already, and probably the nicer version. You are the love of my fucking life. Ok? I don’t care if you want to shag me six ways to Sunday, or if you decide you’re taking up a new identity named Ms Powinckle who only wears feather boas - you are the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m not leaving, and I would love it if we could sort whatever it is that’s going on with you right now, so I can go back to worrying about whether you’ve contaminated the fridge, and how we’re gonna get Rosie to and from nursery on time, rather than whether you’re going to shoot yourself in the dick because you’re having a midlife sexuality crisis.’

 

Sherlock had returned to his frozen state.

 

John leaned back against the bricks, regarding the multitone grey sky as he waited for Sherlock’s brain to reboot. He could feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock, and wondered what it meant that he had always been able to feel it.

 

Sherlock took in a breath. ‘So that’s it then? You’ve had your little say, and now what, we ride off into the proverbial smog-tainted sunset? Would you even _let_ me shag you six ways to Sunday?’

 

John shrugged.

 

Sherlock snorted, ‘I thought as much.’

 

‘I’m not going to claim I’m suddenly gay, bu-’

‘Well then, what good was your little speech?’

 

John silenced him with a clearing of the throat, ‘I’m not going to pretend my entire sexuality has changed overnight. You know where I’ve been. But, er, more importantly, you know where I am now. Which is here. This is where I want to be, Sherlock. Quite frankly, I don’t know what I am, now, I mean, I don’t know that there's a proper label for it. But it’s yours, whatever it is. I meant what I said.’

 

Sherlock turned his head against the brick to look at him, and John felt his veins pulsing with all the warmth and whatever other madness that had always drawn them together. After a moment, he could see the protective layer of scorn slip from his friend’s expression.

 

‘Do you really mean it?’ Sherlock asked quietly.

 

‘God, yes, of course. Just come here, will you?’ John rose to his knees (oh god, the gravel, the pain) and pulled Sherlock to him (oh god, the pulsing skin and posh shampoo) and was immediately overwhelmed by the thousand textures that were Sherlock, and the singing of his blood, which alerted him to the fact that this was all that was right, and good, and about ten years overdue.

 

‘John. John? John. Stop saying “oh god”. Are you alright?’

 

Oh god, was he speaking? Yes. Yes he was. Babbling, rather.

 

‘Sorry. Fine. Yes. Amazing.’ John pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck, and fought a terrible and unexpected tightness in his throat.

 

Sherlock shifted and took John’s face in his hands, ‘John. My wonderful, luminous, albeit somewhat idiotic John. We can’t both have crises at once.’

 

‘I’m not-’ _wonderful_ , he gasped, ‘I’m not-’ _having a crisis_?

Sherlock was taking in his facial struggle with ardent fascination, and John couldn’t even begrudge him.   _Kiss me_ , John thought, _kiss me you silly bugger_. Whether it would seal the matter or condemn it, he was unsure, but he felt certain it had to happen, and now. Before he could coax his lips to do anything more than grope at the words, Sherlock had perhaps seen them, or read his intent, or, what the hell, his face was already between Sherlock’s sizeable hands, and they were breathing in each other’s air, so it didn’t take a genius to deduce where they were headed next - oh.

 

Sherlock’s lips joined his, and John was flooded with giddy relief, that it worked, that it wasn’t awkward, that his limbs felt on fire, though possibly that was due to the awkward angle, that his body had finally cottoned on to the fact that Sherlock was _it_ , the apotheosis, the zenith, the alpha and the omega, the absolute catalyst of everything since the moment he had appeared, the -

 

‘John, whatever you’re thinking tastes like overblown metaphors.’

 

‘What? How could you possibly-’

Grinning wickedly, Sherlock grasped him behind the head and kissed him again, with a possessive fervour that made him pray no one was looking out their back windows.

 

‘A guess, John, but knowing your writing style, a good one. Shall we descend from the roof? Your knees are killing you.’

 

John blinked, veritably dizzy now. ‘I love you,’ he choked out.

 

Sherlock’s brow scrunched with momentary confusion. ‘Yes.’ He blinked twice, then appeared to make a sudden realisation, ‘Of course. I love you too. Obviously.’

 

It was obvious, wasn’t it. But then John was a bit of an idiot.

 

‘Er, Sherlock, how is it you get down from here?’

 

‘I… er… hadn’t considered that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *While expressing his other concern, John glanced at the violin case, with a look of consternation. Elementary, really.


	2. Saving John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with artwork! The Johnlock kiss our OTP deserves.  
> 'Saving John Watson' (2018) Graphite on paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of Chapter 2 Proper. I've written two versions, and am happy with neither. In the meantime, a drawing. Happy pride month!


End file.
